


Conscience Killer

by rissalf



Series: The Dirtgrub and the Twin Terrors [1]
Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: (if you squint like really fucking hard), (it's not dwelled on; we move right past it), Alcohol, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of past abuse, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M, canon-typical drug shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 23:52:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14224542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rissalf/pseuds/rissalf
Summary: Dennis and Dee take care of a sick Charlie. It goes about as well as you'd expect.Written forAlways Sunny Rarepairs Two: Electric Boogaloo





	Conscience Killer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SilentSinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentSinger/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SunnyRarePairs2](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SunnyRarePairs2) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  Dee and Dennis go to town on Charlie. Dubcon preferably.

**10 p.m. on a Thursday**

Anyone who has ever spent more than five minutes with the Reynolds twins knows they have no soul. No conscience. No real sense of right and wrong.

From the moment they were conceived, Dee and Dennis have been two sides of the same coin – crass and manipulative, vain and vindictive – with a taste for ruining anything nice and decent that has the misfortune of crossing their path. To the relief of those around them, however, their toxic energies are often aimed squarely at each other. But when they turn their attention to a common cause (be it making a quick buck or totally owning a game of Chardee MacDennis), that’s when you’ve got to watch your ass. They’re like a pair of hungry sharks – calculating, cold, predatory. And absolutely relentless when they can taste blood in the water.

The last thing either of them is cut out to do is care for someone. It’s just not in their skill set. And selflessness? Fucking forget it. There’s Dee, and there’s Dennis – and occasionally that means they’ll play the sibling card and look after each other, but you’d better believe there’s gonna be something in it for them. So when they show up at Charlie’s apartment while he’s recovering from one fucker of a cold – “We’ll take good care of you,” Dee promises, all sugar and sweetness – wearing wide, gleaming grins with far-too-perfect teeth, eyes devouring him like he's a plump little baby seal, Charlie should have known something was up. He should have slammed the door in their faces and passed out amid his buffet of inhalants. But they’ve come bearing enough beer and cough syrup to obliterate any discomfort his illness can dish out, and fuck it – Charlie Kelly was never one to say no to getting high off his ass. It sure as shit can’t make him feel any worse.

Besides, it's rare enough that it's only the three of them. Most nights when they're not at the bar, Charlie and Frank are cooking up something with the bridge crew, and Mac and Dennis are weirdly attached like all the time. No one really gives a shit what Dee’s doing, but it’s  _something_. A night with just the three of them could be fun. Or at least different.

So they pass around the beer and the off-brand cherry-flavored cough syrup; they’re all partaking, naturally – though Charlie is several hits of paint and a couple beers ahead of them, but it doesn’t matter. In no time at all the trio is wasted as shit and howling at some dumb public access junk on Charlie and Frank’s ancient 16-inch television. Yeah, Charlie thinks, this is real nice. A different dynamic. Dee and Dennis and Charlie. Kind of-

_What the fuck?_

One minute they’re drinking and shooting the shit, and the next Dennis’ hand is on his knee, inching its way up his thigh. For somebody who gets a manicure once a week, his hands are a lot stronger than they look. He’d make a pretty decent rat basher, Charlie decides, but Dennis would probably enjoy it way too much. Dennis was the kind of kid who’d pull the wings off of flies and burn ants under a magnifying glass, and when a certain mood strikes, he can be really fucking unnerving. Like basement-full-of-bones unnerving.

For a good minute or two, Charlie thinks it could be an accident. He’ll look over and Dennis will laugh and say “whoops,” and it’ll all be forgotten. Those things happen. How many times did Uncle Jack accidentally rest his hand on Charlie’s leg when he was a kid and they were watching  _Wheel of Fortune_  after dinner? Or accidentally walk in on him beating off to the Sears catalog when he got older? But when Dennis’ hand dips between Charlie’s legs and he starts to palm at his dick through the threadbare fabric of his long underwear, there's no brushing this off as just some accident.

Out of the corner of his eye, it almost looks like the bastard is smirking. “Uh, dude?”

But Charlie can't get another word out because Dee’s tongue is suddenly in his mouth, and  _oh_   _fuck_ she’s warm and soft, and she tastes like cigarettes and cinnamon gum and that cheap lite beer she’s been drinking ever since Frank said she looked fat last week. Charlie lets his eyelids slip closed – they’re so goddamn heavy – and melts into the protracted ebb and flow of his and Sweet Dee’s feverish kiss.

Her hands are in his hair – and on his chest, underneath his shirt, seemingly everywhere – and it’s like he’s not in his own body anymore. Or like his body is made of water, and he’s just sloshing around an invisible glass. Where the fuck did any of this come from?

Charlie lets the sensation engulf him, a little light-headed as all the blood rushes from his head to his junk as Dee shifts herself onto his lap. It’s almost like the last time they did this, when they were buzzed on beer and the realization that they’re just so fucking  _good_ together. Nothing ever came of that, but it should have, goddammit. He grabs her by the hips and pulls her closer, needing more Dee, more of that sweetness beneath the sour surface, just  _more._ She’s all angles and legs, and the way she moans into his mouth makes him unbearably hard. He’s ready to sweep the empty beer cans and dirty socks off the coffee table and bang her right there, but the lewd wail of Dennis’ zipper shatters the moment with all the tact of a sledgehammer cracking open a watermelon.

“Woah, hey man! What the fuck?” Charlie’s eyes snap open and he pulls away, searching his friends’ faces for some kind of explanation. This is really goddamn weird, even by the Gang’s standards. And is Dennis fucking stroking himself? Jesus. “What the fuck’s going on with you two?”

They must be higher than he is, because neither says a word; instead, Dee slides off Charlie’s lap and slips her hand under the waistband of his long johns, and deftly works them down to expose his cock. The twins share a look – equal parts cutthroat rivalry and greedy glee – and they descend on him, tongues sliding up the length of his thick shaft before meeting in slick harmony as they swirl around the flushed pink tip. Dennis’ hand rubs along his thigh, fingers just grazing his balls, and Charlie shuts his eyes again and lets his head fall back against the worn sofa frame.

Dee and Dennis wrestling over his dick like a couple of kids fighting over the last fudgesicle is bizarre as shit; he can’t deny that. But maybe this isn’t happening at all. Yeah, maybe it ain’t. Oh, shit, he thinks, what if they’re not even here, and this fucked up shit-show is just some sick fantasy that’s been lurking deep down inside? He’s in no state to unravel any of that now. Or maybe ever. God, what he wouldn’t give for a popper to clear his head.

“I'm feeling kinda funny you guys,” he mumbles. It’s like gravity is too fucking strong, and like he could float right up to the ceiling all at once.

The twins finally relent – chins glistening with saliva and pre-cum as they relunctantly cease their ministrations, all the while letting their hands casually stroke his length to keep him erect.

“Well that's probably the cough syrup, Charlie,” Dee replies at last, wiping her reddened lips with the back of her hand.

“Yeah,” Dennis says, “between that and the beer and whatever the fuck else you've got going on, you're probably gonna start feeling real weird any minute now.”

“You're not gonna harvest my organs or nothin’ are you?” Charlie asks, mildly alarmed that they don’t sound near as cunted up as he must be. “I promised Frank a liver if his ever shits the bed, so I’m spoken for.”

The twins laugh in unison. “Of course not,” Dennis replies, his breath hot against Charlie’s ear. It puts him in mind of a hellhound stalking its prey, which consequently would make a pretty sweet addition to the dream journal – assuming this is a dream.  _Fuck._

“We’re just gonna make you scream,” Dennis whispers, just before nipping at Charlie’s earlobe.

“You… what?” Words aren’t making sense anymore, because in spite of all that’s happened in the last ten minutes, he knows he cannot have heard Dennis right. He's hallucinating this shit - has to be. Charlie lifts a hand and runs it through his hair, a gesture that takes entirely too much effort. “I don't know you guys, I’m feeling like I just wanna sleep for like a week. Can’t you just bang each other instead?”

“Aww, come on, Charlie,” Dee coos, “it’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Yeah, buddy, and hey – if it starts getting uncomfortable, we’ll stop whenever you want,” Dennis reassures him, though the loaded glance he and Dee exchange adds an unspoken “probably” to the end of that promise.

He can’t say no. Maybe he wouldn’t anyway. Not to Dee. Sweet, Sweet Dee. Sweeter than honey, he thinks with a mindless giggle. He can’t focus now.

He’s not so sure about Dennis’ involvement in this escapade, but he can’t pretend that he doesn’t fantasize about banging Dee on occasion. He could always shut his eyes and pretend it’s just the two of them, just Sweet Dee and her giant hands touching him all over. And he’s still about 70 percent sure this is a fucked-up fever dream anyway. Charlie gropes past them and fills his grubby sweat sock with paint once more, sucking in a lungful of chemicals before grunting a response. He doesn’t remember saying “yes,” but judging by the way Dennis and Dee grab him by the legs and yank off his long underwear, he supposes he must have.

They’re like vultures picking at a steaming hunk of roadkill, hands plucking off articles of clothing and stripping him down to the tender flesh underneath. His shirt is the only thing that remains – shoved up over his head and covering his face like a makeshift blindfold. There’s a mouth on his dick again and another sucking at his earlobe, and soft hands giving his balls a playful squeeze. He doesn't know who's doing what, and stops giving a shit right at the point when his dick is swallowed whole, right down to the balls. 

“Fuuuuuck” is all he manages to utter after that. His pulse is pounding in his ears – in time with the faint sound of shitty techno bleeding through the paper-thin walls – and he’s practically swimming in sweat. At this rate he’ll either come or pass out, and honestly – either would be just fucking fine at this point.

“Oh,  _fuck,”_  he groans as a second tongue joins the effort, and his hands find their way to the back of someone’s head – it feels like Dennis – to push them further onto his dick. That’s it; that’s what he needs. The satisfied moans and slurps from the twins reverberate through his entire body, and he’s close now, so fucking close. Almost. Just a little more.  _Fuck._ “You guys, I’m gonna-”

Before he can finish the sentence he’s already coming, and it’s like no orgasm he’s ever had in his entire damn life. His blackened vision blooms with vibrant shapes and patterns as he convulses in ecstasy, and when he wriggles free of the shirt covering his eyes, he’s just as awed by the sight of Dee and Dennis looking thoroughly wrecked as they finish with him. They lick him clean with the same tenacity as before, seeming not to mind at all when their tongues meet and their lips crush in one brief, frantic kiss when they finally pull off his cock.

Satisfied and more than a little delirious, Charlie passes out after that, and when he wakes sometime later – the blinding midday sun forcing its way through a slit in the makeshift drapes – he’s tucked in on the pull-out with a note left taped to his chest.

_“Get well soon, cocksucker.”_

He can’t quite understand the words (the letters just don’t make sense somehow), but the drawings underneath – a bird with a heart, and another of a naked woman showing off some unreasonably large tits – say it all. Maybe - just maybe - they do care.

**Author's Note:**

> My only excuse is that I, too, was sick as fuck while writing part of this thing and sometimes, art imitates life. Except in this case, art has 50 percent more cough syrup abuse and 100 percent more sibling incest. Cheers.
> 
> Come and yell at me: [riddlelvr.tumblr.com](http://riddlelvr.tumblr.com)


End file.
